by Marie Celine
‘Be careful, Kitty. You don’t know what the man or those dogs will do.’
The dog on the right growled as if on cue.
‘It’s OK, big guy,’ Kitty replied, putting forward a placating hand. ‘I just want to check on your master, OK?’ She leaned over Victor. His eyes were half-open but Kitty was pretty sure he wasn’t looking at anything, at least not of this world.
‘Better call an ambulance.’ Kitty sighed and took a step back. A wave of nausea hit her like a slap and she sensed that her lunch was about to make a repeat visit to her mouth. ‘And the police,’ she instructed Fran. ‘I believe Victor Cornwall has been murdered.’
FIVE
‘Oh, this is so not good,’ squeaked Fran.
‘Certainly not for Victor Cornwall,’ Kitty agreed. Seeing herself reflected in the mirror above the dresser, Kitty realized she was looking almost as bad as Victor.
‘No.’ Fran shook her head in disbelief. She looked as pale as Kitty, as if all the blood had drained to her toes. ‘Don’t you see?’ Fran said, her voice sounding squeezed. ‘I told the sleaze to drop dead – in front of witnesses!’
‘But, Fran—’
‘And now he is dead.’ Fran was wringing her hands. ‘What are people going to think?’
‘Relax,’ said Kitty, taking Fran’s trembling hands. ‘People aren’t going to think anything. Besides, you’ve been with me the whole time.’ She scanned the room. There was a magazine spilled open on the floor beside the night table and a half-empty glass on top of it. An open black leather-bound checkbook was on the desk with the corner of a torn check remaining on the open page.
Near Victor’s bed were two plush dog beds, six foot in diameter, that appeared to be upholstered in real mink. If not, it was a very good imitation. Several gold-leaf bordered white china dog dishes lay on a mat near the kitchenette consisting of a built-in mini-fridge, microwave, sink and coffee maker.
‘Is it my fault he’s dead?’ asked Fran. ‘Did I put some sort of curse on him?’
‘Of course not,’ replied Kitty. ‘Don’t be ridiculous. You’re not some kind of witch doctor.’ Fran was from the Caribbean. Birthplace of witch doctors, according to all the cheesy old movies on late-night TV that Jack liked to watch. But telling someone to drop dead didn’t make it happen. Did it? No, people would be falling like flies. Besides, Victor Cornwall hadn’t simply dropped dead. Kitty was sure he’d had help.
Kitty dug into her purse, looking for her cell phone. Something loud, a cough or a sneeze, broke the gloomy atmosphere like a sudden clap of thunder. Fran shouted and the dogs started barking. Kitty spun on her heels. ‘That sounded like it came from over there.’ She pointed toward the heavy brocaded black curtains.
Fran nodded. Her eyes had transmogrified into big white golf balls.
Kitty shushed the dogs and stepped to the curtains. ‘H-hello?’ she said tentatively. There was a scraping metallic sound in response. She rushed to pull back the drapes, her hand trembling. Peering out, she discovered there was a large balcony with a seating area outside that housed two chairs and a square table. Kitty placed her hand on the sliding glass door, partly to steady herself and partly because she knew she was going to have to go out there.
The door slid open easily. It hadn’t been locked.
The balcony was deserted. Kitty didn’t know whether to be disappointed or relieved. But at least there were no more dead bodies.
The chill evening air wrapped around her like a blanket left out overnight. The resort grounds were reasonably well lit but there were plenty of dark places where a person or persons could hide. All of the balconies on this side of the building jutted out and were attached to each other. One of the chairs on Victor’s balcony was pushed up with its back against the right-side railing. Kitty stepped up on the chair and carefully leaned over to get a better look at the room next door. The patio was a mirror image of this one. The room appeared unoccupied – at least, no light spilled out from the cracks in the curtains. Its occupants could be out to dinner. She found the same thing on the left side.
Could Victor Cornwall’s killer have escaped this way?
‘Katherine Karlyle,’ hissed Fran, ‘what are you doing? Get in here.’
‘I’m coming.’ Kitty scanned the grounds once more then reluctantly turned back. ‘Fran, I think somebody – like a murderer – could get away from this room by leapfrogging the balconies.’
Kitty stepped inside. ‘It might be dangerous, but I’ll bet that’s what—’ She froze. A young woman in a gray housekeeping uniform with white trim was standing inside the door. Several plush white towels were draped over her left arm. Long, straight blonde hair fell below her shoulders. She looked like somebody’s trophy wife more than a maid. And with that creamy Nordic skin of hers, she reminded Kitty of someone she would rather not be reminded of.
‘What are you doing?’ The young lady scrunched up her face. Definitely a northern European accent.
‘Please, you don’t want to come any closer.’ Kitty held up her hands as if to ward her off. The woman ignored her and stepped around the corner, taking in the dogs and the body of Victor Cornwall. The housekeeper’s horror-film-caliber scream set the dogs to howling in unison once more. Were Victor Cornwall’s dogs always this touchy?
Sheesh, thought Kitty, why hadn’t they howled like this when their master was being murdered? Or had they? But then, wouldn’t someone in one of the other rooms have heard something? Not necessarily, Kitty supposed. As she’d discovered, the rooms on either side might be vacant or their occupants out. The resort did seem to have thick walls and doors. It was a luxury spa, after all, and would, by its design, be filled with potentially loud pets. There was probably a lot of soundproofing between the conjoining rooms.
Victor could have cried for help and never been heard.
The poodle scream-and-howl fest was all it took to set Fran off again because she was screaming at the top of her lungs, too. And with all those beads shaking in her head, it sounded like a horror movie on a dark and stormy night.
Kitty’s head throbbed as she urgently jabbed at the numbers on her phone.
‘Please step away from the body.’ Stern basso words cut through the air like a sharp-edged saber.
Kitty looked up, startled. She didn’t realize she had been standing so close to the body. Victor Cornwall’s left hand was close enough to reach out and caress her legs. The very thought of it made her skin crawl. Not that he’d likely be doing any reaching out and touching. Unless he was part zombie.
The muzzle of a gun pointed at the space between Kitty’s eyes. She took an immediate and exaggerated step to the left. Guns sort of had that effect on her.
She held up her hands, one clutching her phone, the other Victor Cornwall’s ring. ‘OK, OK. Everything is all right.’ Well, sort of. She guessed that depended on one’s point of view. Victor Cornwall might have another opinion on the subject. ‘In fact,’ she wiggled her phone in the air, ‘I was just going to call you. Well, the police.’ Though this guy was dressed in a tan-and-black uniform and shiny black lace-ups, he looked more like the private security variety rather than the officially sanctioned police type. She should know – she was engaged to a cop.
Speaking of which, Kitty wished Jack was here. The housekeeper had fled and Fran was standing as stiff and stern as a library entrance statue – no use at all.
The security guard spoke into a small black walkie-talkie he’d unclipped from his shirt. ‘Hey, Penny. This is Howie. You’d better call the police and an ambulance pronto. And tell Mr Ruggiero.’ He clicked off and shook his head. ‘Boy, he’s sure not going to be happy.’
Kitty wasn’t feeling so happy herself. ‘Would you mind putting that thing away – or at least not pointing it between my eyes?’ This guy looked a little skittish. One false move and she could be toast. No, make that Swiss cheese.
‘Oh, sorry.’ He glanced at his weapon, looking suddenly rather abashed. He lowered the handgun to his side.
Kitty
raised her eyebrows in Fran’s direction.
Fran shrugged almost imperceptibly. ‘Yes, don’t shoot her. After all, it’s my fault he’s dead.’
‘Fran!’ Oh, sure, now she decides to talk – and stick her foot in her mouth. And possibly get them both impulsively shot down as likely murder suspects.
Kitty took a step forward. Not a good move. She stopped as the guy once more sighted his gun on her then Fran, wavering between the two of them as if unsure who to shoot first. ‘She’s kidding. Well, not kidding exactly.’ Kitty managed a smile that she hoped would keep the two of them alive long enough to clarify the situation. She took a calming breath and started again. ‘Look, let me explain. It’s like this. That guy,’ she pointed to the dead man, ‘was acting like a jerk.’ She just realized what an awful thing she’d said about a dead man. She’d always heard you never speak ill of the dead. ‘I mean, no disrespect or anything, but he kind of was acting like a jerk.’
‘Kitty—’ Fran started.
‘No, no.’ Kitty gestured with her hands for Fran to stop interrupting. ‘Let me finish.’
She turned back to the security guard with a renewed smile. ‘Anyway, Fran said he should drop dead and—’ She gestured grandly toward the bed and the body of Victor Cornwall. Was it possible that he was looking deader by the minute? ‘Well, you can see for yourself. This is how we found him. We came to return his ring. He dropped it.’ Kitty held the ring out in her open hand. ‘See? This ring.’
The security man chewed his lips a moment as he cautiously leaned in to get a better look at the ring.
What? Kitty thought. Did he think it was a bomb or something?
‘Yeah, all right.’ He lowered the black menace. ‘You mean he’s really dead?’ He turned two shades paler than he already had been.
‘I-I think so,’ Kitty gulped. ‘We’ll have to wait for the paramedics or a doctor to tell us for sure.’ The poor guy. He’d probably never seen a dead body before. Despite having pulled a gun on her, he didn’t seem like a bad fellow. He was of average build and average height with brown eyes and medium brown hair that fell onto a slightly sloping forehead.
Altogether a rather ordinary and harmless-looking man – when he wasn’t training a deadly weapon on you. He had a wide, flat nose and broad cheeks. Scraggly sideburns appeared to be struggling to grow out and down his jaw. A plastic black nametag attached to the left side of his shirt had his name, Howie Patterson, in white block letters. Kitty estimated him to be in his early thirties and, judging from his accent, she figured he was from the Midwest somewhere, maybe Toledo or Detroit. Howie Patterson wasn’t wearing a wedding band so he was probably single.
‘And listen,’ he said, his eyes imploring them in what Kitty thought was a rather odd turn of events as the sounds of many running feet approached them from out in the hall, ‘please don’t tell anyone, especially Mr Ruggiero, that I pulled my gun on you ladies. Management doesn’t like it when I pull it out of its holster.’
‘Well …’ began Kitty, rather unsure what to say.
‘But I like to keep it with me,’ he confessed, patting the tan leather holster at his left hip attached to a matching leather belt. ‘There are a lot of animals around here and you never know when one might become dangerous.’
Kitty and Fran shared a smile. ‘We promise,’ Kitty said. The security guard would owe her. He could become her eyes and ears. Something told her she was going to need an extra pair of each.
Howie seemed uncertain what to do.
‘Really, we won’t tell,’ Fran said.
‘OK.’ Howie dropped his eyes to the ground. ‘It’s not a real gun anyway. It’s a tranquilizer pistol, see?’ He aimed the barrel at Kitty’s eyes and she ducked. What was it with this guy always aiming that thing between her eyeballs?
‘I see! I see! Please,’ she said, motioning with her hands, ‘put that thing away.’ She had thought the gun looked different somehow but hadn’t been able to put her finger on it. Despite Jack being a member of the police department she knew little about weapons and planned to keep it that way. Jack had taken her to the shooting range once despite her resistance and she’d cringed every time a gun went off. Kitty had refused to try shooting no matter how much Jack insisted it was safe. He argued that she might need to defend herself someday. She argued that it was his job to make sure that need never arose.
Howie slid the pistol back into its holster. A moment later Victor Cornwall’s hotel room filled with police and emergency medical personnel.
SIX
Kitty woke with a start. Somebody was banging on the door. She reached from under the covers and twisted the face of the hotel alarm clock in her direction. It was nearly seven-thirty. She hadn’t slept in this late since … well, she couldn’t even remember since when.
Her arm fell over the edge of the bed. Fred immediately covered it in slobber. Somewhere in the distance she heard Barney mewl. They were looking for their breakfast. Her pets rarely ate this late. Pets have internal clocks that tell them precisely when their supposed ‘masters’ should be feeding them their royal breakfasts. Kitty’s dog and cat were no exception.
She said good morning to Fred, told Barney to hold his horses – probably an impossibility for a cat – and rolled over on her side. Fran was snoring away. Kitty could only marvel. She’d tossed and turned all night. How did Fran manage to shut out the world like that? And could she teach her the trick?
Kitty fought to free her legs from the tangle of covers that had snared her in the night. The banging had started up again. Good grief.
A quick glimpse of her reflection in the mirrored closet door elicited a ‘Yikes!’ Her hair looked like she’d spent the night with her head thrust out the window of a fast-moving commuter train. The bags under her eyes looked large enough to hold groceries for a family of four. Her Garfield pajamas were rumpled and sagging. Perfect. She ran a finger through her hair just for fun and shuffled to the door. The banging picked up as if whatever fool was out there had sensed her approach and was leading the orchestra to its crescendo.
Whoever it was had succeeded in giving her a throbbing headache and Kitty was going to give them an earful for their trouble. She hurried to undo the chain and slowly pulled open the door. ‘You!’ She was gripping the door handle so hard she feared either the handle or her fingers would break. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘I told you we’d start filming this morning. Don’t be such a fusspot.’ Steve abruptly pushed in, dressed in a yellow-and-black gingham shirt with the top three buttons undone and a pair of charcoal-gray slacks.
Kitty went tumbling backward, barely managing to maintain her footing. Good thing the edge of the dresser had been there to slam into her tailbone, saving her from possibly falling on the soft and dangerous carpet. Pain shot up her spine and stars circled her eyes and nose.
She was about to let loose on Steve when Greg Clifton, the director, Julie McConnell, his assistant and lover, a cameraman whose name she kept forgetting, some new woman holding a long pole from which extended two bright lights, Artie, the sound recorder, and one of the Santa Monica Film Studios gofers all came bursting into the room as one.
Yikes again.
Kitty gasped. ‘What is going on? What are you people doing here?’ A bloodcurdling scream came from behind and Kitty instinctively turned.
Fran was sitting up, wearing a well-worn gray short-sleeve Bob Marley T-shirt that she often slept in. She took in the scene, dived under the covers and pulled a pillow over her head. ‘Go away!’ she hollered. Smothered by the pillow, she might as well have been whispering in her sleep for all the effect her words had.
Kitty thought Fran might have also muttered something about not even having her extensions in yet but she couldn’t be certain. An exploratory trip to the bathroom would clear that up. Fran liked to drape her hair extensions over the towel rack back home in their shared bathroom. There was no reason to think she wouldn’t be doing the same thing here. Fran considered all spac
e her personal space.
In any case, no one was leaving their room despite Kitty’s demands.
‘Somebody pull open those draperies,’ ordered Greg. ‘I’m not getting enough light over here. Kitty’s face looks terrible.’ He was in full director mode now. ‘Where’s my meter? Get me a light reading!’
Kitty was about to vehemently object to that last statement when she caught another glimpse of herself in the mirror over the refrigerator. OK, so he was right about her face. The young gofer, a timid woman in a blue peasant dress, whom Kitty had seen around the studio, hurried to obey Greg. Bright light coming in from the east seared Kitty’s eyes before she could argue against opening the curtains. It was like somebody had just dropped her eyeballs into a frying pan full of hot canola oil. ‘Ouch!’ She covered her eyes with her fingers.
Fred barked.
‘Please, Greg,’ Kitty implored. ‘Not now. Turn off the lights and that camera.’ She pointed angrily at the camera operator, who did not so much as flinch. Apparently he was well aware that the only person he had to answer to was Greg.
‘What’s the problem?’ asked the director. He looked genuinely puzzled. ‘I mean, we’re here to film. That’s what this whole trip is all about.’ He looked to Julie for support and she nodded vigorously.
She would, thought Kitty sourly. Even Fred was bobbing his head up and down. ‘Traitor,’ growled Kitty. Fred wagged his tail happily. He was a hard one to insult. She tried pleading with Greg. After all, he always seemed so level-headed – certainly more so than Steve. ‘Please, Greg, this is not a good time. There was a murder here last night. Around the corner from our room. Fran and I found the body. We were up all night being interrogated and answering endless questions.’
‘I know. I heard about that. Who hasn’t? It’s big news.’ Greg was grinning. ‘Isn’t it great? Talk about your luck. I mean, it’s too bad and all, but still.’
‘Greg,’ Kitty repeated slowly. ‘A man was killed last night.’ Had he not understood?
